


(tell them the) fairytale gone bad

by RosaNautica



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (I mean there is Max in this - I think it's kinda obvious but still XD ), Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Father-Son Relationship, Gaslighting, Hypersexuality, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, but all the disturbing things are tagged already, don't think of anything sexual please, referenced BDSM practices nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaNautica/pseuds/RosaNautica
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a little boy and a messed-up world.Warnings for this fic: contains psychological abuse and mental disorders – if it might appear triggering, stay at safe distance and if you suffer or suspect you suffer any of these, please, get help - it’s neither a shame, nor a failure, nor anything like that. Please, folks, take care of yourselves! <3





	1. What the ear does not hear will not move the heart

**Author's Note:**

> Heey song-lyrics titles, did you miss me? I'm back^^  
I would like to underline that this is purely work of my - now it's official - twisted imagination and means no harm whatsoever to anyone.
> 
> Infinite thanks go to the amazing **Charona** for boost and encouragement to share this with the world - thank you, my dear <3

_~ Spa_

Max lurks around the McLaren motorhome, personnel giving him odd looks as they move back and forth with pieces of the construction. He’s not even sure it’s a good idea, but he felt the need to check on Lando before they go.

“Hey there,” the familiar voice greets him; he turns to see Lando putting down his phone, leaning against a wall they haven’t started to dismantle yet.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing much.” Lando unblocks the screen and hands over his phone. There is the notorious “inhaling seagull”:

“You really wanna post this?”

“Nah. Just playing around.”

Max blinks but says nothing. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms, and he’s surely not the one to preach about them.

“Is it worse to be out right after the start or just before the finish?” Lando wonders aloud, while taking back the phone and swiping through the gallery, then shows it again to Max.

“Both suck, is all I know,” the Dutchman replies dryly, looking at another edit.

He snorts.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You better do if you wanna make it here.”

Lando sighs and shakes his head slowly.

“Just… your car letting you down like this… If I crashed, if I did some crap, it would be much easier to swallow…”

“Are you sure?”

Voice thick with irony reminds him who he’s actually talking to.

“Oh. I don’t know… Sorry about your start.”

“That’s what happens when you want something too much, you fuck it up,” Max shrugs and glances at the other driver, who’s watching him intently, lips slightly parted.

Something shifts in the atmosphere and that last sentence suddenly isn’t about driving anymore.

He instantly recognizes the move and dodges it in the most subtle way possible, giving him a shoulder bump. Lando pulls back, momentarily lost. Max catches a glimpse of it all in his eyes before he casts them down: hurt, shame, helplessness…

“You wouldn’t handle me,” he says, because of course, stupid as he is, he can’t simply tell him that he doesn’t want it, doesn’t like him… He _lives_ pretending, since when does he shy away from a little white lie?!

“Hey,” the Brit raises his head, stubbornly offended, “I know I’m, like… small, and people think I’m a joke, but I can handle stuff?!”

“But I don’t want you to!” Max loses his nerves. This is getting too excruciating. “I want you to look at me and see what you were seeing till now.”

“I want to see _you_.”

_Oh, bet your ass you don’t…_

“_This_ is me. It is the _me_ I am for you and I want it to stay that way, understood?”

“No.”

“I want you to think of me and think of Super Max or whatever that crap is called, and of my broken pedal and I don’t know, all the jokes and stuff, that’s who I want to be – help me with it, Lando! I want you to see me as who I could be, not who I am…” Remotely aware he might be talking nonsense and contradicting himself at this point, he better cuts it off. “I need a friend,” he nearly whispers and hopes that Lando will understand _that_: a friend that won’t trespass on his privacy, and to whom Max won’t owe so much trust and sharing.

A friend that won’t see him break down in the most unexpected moments, won’t get dragged along down Max’s kinky ways, won’t have to deal with his mood swings…

He has almost broken Daniel with all that and it’s hard enough to live with. He wouldn’t forgive himself the slightest crack in Lando’s spirit and innocence – Lando, standing next to him now unnaturally quiet, fidgeting with his phone, taking one corner out of the case and tucking it back in on repeat. Max opens his mouth, he really wants to tell him something nicer than that, something that would give away how much he cares, but he can’t find anything. All he can think of is _I fucked up, I fucked up again, and it will never be the same fun it used to be…_

“I… think I should go,” Lando clears his throat, “guys will need to pack it up here, so…”

Max’s vision blackens. Is this what they are going to be from now on? Awkward, well calculated words, polite distance? Good on you, Maxy. Brilliant. If there was one thing you could give that boy, it had to be teaching him how to fake. After all, what else do you have to offer?

Left alone behind enemy lines, it’s his turn to feel uncomfortable and lost. He walks off before anyone would tell him to, accompanied by his distorted reflection on the motorhome wall until it vanishes in the depths of mirrored glass. A strange idea crosses his mind, that it is actually the other way around: that the reflection is his true self and what’s walking this earth is only its idealized projection… He shakes his head, as if to make everything in there fall into place. (He does it quite often, and it never works, but at least it feels like he’s trying.)

_~ Guildford / Monte Carlo_

Lando switches everything off and leans back, hands clasped behind his neck, eyes falling closed. He’s too tired to race, but not sleepy enough to go to bed, he can’t find anything to do, the whole house is empty and quiet, and he misses Max’s husky voice with that sexy lisp, he misses Sacha, his irritating, refreshing presence… If he was there, he would probably call Lando to come eat the dinner if he’s done, bantering over the meal.

_“Miracle you haven’t burnt down the kitchen.”_

_“I have a little, fire brigade came over, you were too busy playing to notice.”_

_His stomach churns at the smell of steamed vegetables and he’s not sure if it’s hunger or nerves. He doesn’t want to hurt his friend’s culinary feelings, though, so he swallows a few forks. Sacha notices the discomfort._

_“Hey, I’m sorry, I tried…”_

_“No, it’s not bad at all! Way better than whatever I can cook myself, at least.”_

_“So, what’s up, you crashed?”_

_“Way too many times,” Lando grunts._

_“Distracted?” Sacha smirks, that bastard, pushes his chair back to pull his legs up and cross them and cocks his head, looking at him with a cheeky grin. “Who is it about this time?”_

_“**This time?!** You know what, I really should move out on my own. And anyways, I was just tired.”_

_“So I’m right,” Fenestraz says to himself smugly. “Look, you can tell me anything, Lando, it’s not like I’m going to wash your dirty laundry…”_

_“That you could do, actually. Literally. And also fold it, then. I hate folding. That would be nice, I’ll make you a coffee for that or something.”_

_“Just because you know I don’t drink coffee.”_

Imagining the scene helps him kill some time and draws a small, sad smile. Maybe he would tell him something, maybe they would just mess around like that, but at least he wouldn’t be so alone with it. He wouldn’t be so alone in general. After all the teasing about moving out_, I can afford it with my F1 income_, in the end it’s Sacha who has left him there (without ever knowing that some of those distracted crashes were also due to him, and it’s better off that way).

He can’t seem to enjoy even scrolling his Instagram. The heavy weight on his chest won’t let him enjoy anything, currently. Loneliness, that bitch.

_Where are you, when I’m here?_

He fidgets with his phone, unblocking and blocking it mindlessly, eventually casts the idea to text Max away and puts his favourite song on again.

_Touchin’ you slowly, love how you hold me_

_I was a player, that was the old me_

_I sent a prayer for something holy_

_got naked and show me_

_summer’s been lonely…_

He runs a hand down his torso, palms his crotch through the sweatpants, until he takes a deep breath of resignation and slides the hand under the briefs.

_Next to me, when I'm with you, you bring out the best of me…_

_But if I wrote you a love song, would you sing it?_

_If I needed bail out of jail, would you bring it?_

_If I win, then we're up, if we fail, then we wing it…_

He picks up the pace, back of the free hand pressed to his mouth as he sucks and bites at it.

_Love you through the better days_

_Love you through the rainy ones_

_Champion, you're number one, yeah, that's true_

_But I guess what I'm sayin', I guess what I'm sayin'_

_I guess what I'm sayin' is, I_

_I fuckin' love you_

Somewhere at the back of his hazed mind he regrets not having put the music on repeat; his moany gasps sound embarrassing in silence, but he’s too far gone to stop now.

Pent-up tension leaves his body with a shudder, he sinks his teeth into the knuckles to bite back a desperate whimper, wipes the spontaneous wetness from the corners of his eyes and goes limp. Unable to move, he slouches in the simulator seat, eyelids suddenly too heavy.

“Goodnight, love, I fuckin’ love you,” he whispers, half awake, and drifts off, cum drying up on his fingers.

Max completed two more races after Lando had signed off, and it wasn’t nearly as much fun as with him. Although their racing session felt a little tense at the start, and at some point Max started to regret joining in, they eventually managed to fall back into their rhythm and when he opened the Twitch stream to see excited Lando replaying his awesome not-quite-Scandi-flick through the last chicane, he realized a few things at once: he had a hard time focusing on the car manoeuvre instead of the small face cam at the bottom left, he wanted to hug Lando right in that moment, because apart from funny, he looked too adorable to bear, and most importantly, he wanted this to last. The light-heartedness, the understanding, whatever there is between them, he wants more of it in his life.

If only he could.

The amount of times he has heard Lando answer the question about Max’s Twitch account astonishes him. He’s aware he can be pretty funny, but this is just not in his nature, and he can’t imagine someone would really think otherwise and want to watch him stream.

If nothing else, he can’t even think of all the shit he would get for it. Simulator is the best way to practice out of the car, that’s a given. (He can go at it for hours, although it would never quite do justice to the sound and vibrations of the car, the feeling of helmet weighing on his head and fireproofs sticking to his body…) However, joining Team Redline has already led to several arguments over the years,_ this is what virtual racing does: you talk rubbish, get distracted, do stupid shit, laugh at it, you restart, and nothing happened, right? That’s not improving, Max. That’s wasting the time you could use to **actually** improve…_ The one after the 24 hours of Spa is still too fresh in his memory.

_“The worst fifteen minutes of your life, Max.”_

_“I was joking!”_

_“Racing isn’t a joke! Racing is your goddamned mission, your duty. It’s not some ‘fun’.”_

Of course it’s not. Racing has always been a battlefield for Max: pitlane a war trench, racetrack a firing line, paddock the den of counterintelligence.

As far back as his memory goes, it is the first thing he remembers. Formula cars, go-karts, endless trips, circuits, tyres, tools, the garage smell of oil and rubber that lingered on him till he got home and even after he took a shower and got changed, he would lie on the bed, nose buried in his overalls, replaying the whole day in his head, and painful longing to be back there gnawed at his chest…

It’s all he has lived for, all he ever wanted to live for.

But he doesn’t want it to be all his life is made of, anymore. And he doesn’t want to fight a war.

That crazy little geek is the best thing that could happen to him. The best thing Max could do was to let him in. A new sunshine in his life, making him laugh again, feel a bit more his age, a bit more careless, and Max knows he shouldn’t be careless and happy, shouldn’t be well when… when she isn’t, and when his title is eighty-eight points away, but the thing is, he _wants_ to be well, for once. He wants a bit of his teen years back, before it’s too late.

<strike>He wants to kiss Lando’s lips twitching in ecstasy, wants that devoted gaze, a flicker of which he has caught a few times, wants his laughter, his love, his light.</strike>

And he wants to protect that kid – from himself, before everything else.

Yet, he can’t help wondering if it could have been one of those kisses that turn ugly frogs and beasts into princes.

Fairy-tale saviours wear shiny armours and ride proud horses, maybe he could do well enough with a racing car driver in pyjamas-like Valentino Rossi merch.

It’s probably for the best that he’ll never know.

He’d like to think of himself as a smart boy, but there have always been too many things he couldn’t understand.

Like, why mum never laughed when dad was pranking her.

_“Where are the car keys?”_ she would ask, confused. _“I put them on the table yesterday…”_

Eventually she would find them in a pocket of her coat.

_“No way,”_ she’d stare at them, _“I was sure I put them on that plate on the table yesterday…”_

_“Well, apparently you didn’t. Let’s go, we’re already late,”_ dad would urge, and she’d go, scratching her nape, brows furrowed above huge sad eyes.

_“Why did you hide mum’s keys?”_ Max would ask, when they were alone. His dad would snap, a jolt of panic which the boy, playing with his cars on the road map carpet, couldn’t see.

_“It was a joke,”_ he’d roll his eyes, then, _“just that your mum doesn’t have a sense of humour at all.”_

Max doubted that. They used to laugh a lot, with mum. Yes, she felt sick every now and then, there were days when she barely moved out of the bed, but she enjoyed having fun! She always read fantastic bedtime stories and loved to play all kinds of silly games.

With time she stopped laughing.

Then she started to cry.

Then she stopped crying, too, and her empty stare was the scariest thing he’d ever seen.

Years later, he somehow heard words like narcissist, psychological manipulation… It all started to make more sense. What made no sense at all was that his mum was in the hospital, but it was in fact his father who was out of mind. Yes, Max knew already it wasn’t pranks and fun. Still, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand why anyone would do that, purposefully hurt people they were supposed to love.

And what he absolutely failed to understand was how _he_ could do that _himself_. Yet, anytime he lashed out at Dan, he found a short-lived relief in his swearing, fighting back, in confused look of teary eyes, quivering lip, in the slam of shut door. _He gets it,_ Max would comfort himself after the satisfaction dissipated and he was left with regrets. What he forgot to count in, though, was that no matter how understanding Daniel was, he’d eventually had enough. And one day he didn’t come back, falling again for Max’s tears.

_“I don’t wanna start hating you_.” And Max knew what he thought but would never address aloud: you hate yourself for both of us.

Those memes have stuck with Max for days to come. It was unbelievably absurd, yet he caught himself understanding it. For Lando, ironic as it seems, is fun what hurt is for Max. He will always laugh – to tears or through them, he lives off it. Just as Max will fight, tooth and nails, to the last breath and beyond, till he drops, wrapped in delightful pain. That’s where his over-the-top trainings come from, that’s what makes him dwell on every mistake for as long as the stinging feeling of guilt lasts.

That’s what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter is a Gaelic folk opening.  
The lame memes are mine.  
The song featured here is _I.F.L.Y._ by Bazzi, and Lando loves it very much as stated on one of his streams.
> 
> I'd be more than happy to know what you folks think about this :)


	2. You’re mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret: all the best people are.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max gives up.

_~ Singapore_

Lando makes his way through clothes and other items scattered around the floor and tries not to stare at the opened suitcase, leaning overthrown against the bed. He thought he was going there to celebrate the podium in some way.

He slumps down on the sofa and nudges a water bottle with his foot.

“What the hell happened here?”

“Oh, why are you asking?” Max pulls the most innocent tone, voice a tad raspier than usual. The slowly rolling bottle irritates him to no end and he barely keeps himself from kicking it flying across the room.

“It’s not funny, what have you… Wait, is this about the race, somehow?” Affirmative silence lasts a second too long. “Look, the way you held Lewis behind – that was masterclass in defence, what’s your problem now? Max… you were third!” Lando stares at him incredulous, and Max knows it must look childish and petty, but he doesn’t care.

“Yeah, and he was fourth. I should’ve made him make a mistake, _that_ would be a masterclass! If not, what’s the point, I’m losing 96 points, and also got Leclerc catching up.”

Lando scoffs.

“You’re incredible. What would I give for a podium, and you’re whining here about the championship? Like, you really think you’re winning it this year? Seriously?”

“Like, you really want to compare us, seriously?!” Max mimics, making him wince.

“That was lousy. I could be where you are if I had your car.”

“Or you could be where Pierre is.”

Lando gets up, shaking his head, and gives the room one last disgusted look.

“Chill out a little, Max, I think you’re losing it.”

“Too late,” Max says quietly in the click of closing door. _The same old story. _He finally kicks the bottle, over and over until it's no more than a piece of crumpled plastic, leaking water on the floor.

In the middle of said dull activity, there is a knock.

“Okay, this looks like in those lame comedies,” Lando shuffles on his feet on the threshold. “You know, where they totally fight and leave, and then come back because…”

“They left their phone here?” Max hands it over. “Which is like losing one of your limbs, so here you are.”

“Yeah.” Lando absentmindedly wipes the screen with his sleeve, affectionate move that draws a small smile from Max.

“Look… sorry, it _was _lousy,” he mutters and steps aside, hoping the other driver will accept the olive branch. “Guess we shouldn’t talk about racing right after the race…”

“No problem, I just, I think you should… like, give yourself a break. I know you want to win, we’re all here to win, right? I am, too, even if it doesn’t look like that… _yet_," Lando leans on the door to click them closed. "But there are six races left, and I don’t want you to be surprised when Lewis will get that title again. I think it’s better if you… accept that it might happen, that’s all. Maybe you shouldn’t.” He slides down and hugs his knees. It’s a kind of habit Max shall never understand, to sit on the floor when there are plenty of more comfortable spots around, but that’s Lando and Max plops himself down next to him. “Maybe that’s the loser mentality and the beginning of the end, I don’t know. But you look… unhinged. Relax a bit, Max. You’re doing your best, that’s all that matters. What the others are doing is out of your control, unfortunately – I know it must be pissing you off like nothing else,” he chuckles, “but just focus on yourself. And _have_ _fun_. It all comes down to that, you know? If it’s not making you happy, you can’t do it, you’re not doing it well. Ease up.”

Max is taken aback a bit by both the control freak observation and the simple advice, so valid in his current crisis of mindset (or life principles). Then again, he shouldn't be. They never really talked outside the sim races, seldom hanging out in spare time on the race weekends, let alone just the two of them, but he _knows_ there is more to Lando than meets the eye, and he would love to know that reverse side better. If only it didn't come with getting to know better his own reverse side.

“You are smarter than you look, you know that?” he nudges him, but the mood seems unliftable.

“I just… I don’t want you to do some stupid,” Lando says quietly. “Push it over the limits.”

Maybe it’s a lingering shadow of Belgium, or maybe it is the blush deepening Lando’s fading tan, shaky fingers tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie, but Max can’t bring himself to laugh it off as he would normally do, _play ‘Super Max’ at my funeral_ or something similar. He ruffles the soft curls and looks for words to reassure him, or both of them, somehow, that he won’t take it too far. But whatever he wants to say, it’s not what leaves his mouth:

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” They have never brought that attempt up since Spa, and he isn’t sure what such acknowledgement of Lando’s feelings even means, and what is worse, why it feels so natural, so _right_. He clears his throat. “I don’t want to die, Lando. I just want to win, I… _need_ to win… while I can.”

Lando blinks, confused. Of course. Max presses his back against the upholstered door and curls his fists. He isn’t used to talk about it. Never ends well.

_You’re not reducing the workout session just because you woke up lazy._

_The whole world is watching you, Max, you don’t want to look like a fucking pussy._

_You’ve seen yourself what that shit does to people, you really think of taking that?_

_Be a man, Max._

“While I’m keeping it together. One day I will… if I…” He doesn’t know what to say, how to say it, he doesn’t know exactly _what_ is going to happen, but it scares the shit out of him. The thought that he might end up like that, too. Because today, he knows why his mum was bouncing around happily on one day, doing ten things at once and barely finishing any of them, and wandering around distracted and sad on the other.

He has also been told these things are genetic. And he is damn sure they aren’t getting better with time.

“I’m crazy, Lando.”

“Copy that. What else is new?”

“I mean it. I’m…” What _is_ he, actually? He has heard some unsettling medical terms but has no idea what might apply to him. And he realizes he _should_ know, he should’ve known long ago. Before he shouted Daniel down for always sticking his prominent nose into Max’s business and acting like he knew everything better. Before he bent down, ashamed, under his father’s endless scolding. He should know and face it. For now, he hopes that worldwide gesture of twirling the fingers by his temple will convey. And to keep it up, once he has started saying things he doesn't mean to say, he adds: “Guess I’ve taken after my mum.”

“Actually, what happened between you?”

There, Max feels his insides crumbling. _I let her down. I let him take her apart._ And being a clueless little kid is no excuse.

_“I think I’m going insane…” _Eyes filled with horror, it wasn’t her usual playful _“I know I’m nuts, and you love me for it!”_ and Max didn’t understand why dad wouldn’t tell her, at least now… Why he took her hands instead, with such an artful compassion, and said softly: _“Don’t worry, darling. Perhaps you might tell your doctor about it? I’m sure it’s nothing, maybe you’re just tired, but… I don’t want you to break down or something…”_

He tries to swallow the lump, but it keeps coming back up. Lando is very quiet and if Max dared to look at him, he would see teeth digging into bottom lip, eyes wide with worry, sadness and something that Lando himself cannot quite define, it’s nothing he has felt before (but to Max, it would probably remind of Danny).

Max doesn’t dare to look, though, so he just holds his breath to keep himself from sobbing and counts the seconds. At twenty-two, a swift move startles him: Lando swings one leg over him and straddles his lap, hugging him close.

“Sorry, Max,” he brushes his hair, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer. Just don’t push me away. Please.”

Max nods, defeated, because he so desperately needs him right now. Too much.

He has a feeling that Lando and her would’ve been the best family ever. Like, finishing each other’s sentences and mocking Max together, mum telling embarrassing stories from his childhood and Lando from their racing days… He happened to see some footage of Lando cooking and he can absolutely picture the driver joining her in her disastrous kitchen adventures - like that time when she decided she would make a five-storey cake for Max's fifth birthday, and eventually at eight in the evening, they ended up at the kitchen table between countless utensils, cake crusts of different diameters, some of them half-burnt, unfinished fillings and coatings, floury dust and sticky smudges everywhere, and they were dipping éclairs in remaining chocolate, because there was literally nothing else usable left… Lando would love that chaos, and surely turn in into some stupid fun.

He doesn’t know why he keeps drowning deeper and deeper in these thoughts, when they only make him cry even harder, but he can’t stop.

Lando squeezes him, rocks him gently – for a second Max has a flash of his mum rocking back and forth, expressionless and unreachable, and panic rises in his chest, but this… this is rather soothing, and Max holds on to him for dear life. Feels like the last chance he’s ever going to get.

“I don’t want you to start hating me,” he chokes out.

“I won’t. You hate yourself enough.” Firm, matter-of-factish. Maybe, Max thinks, maybe he really can handle stuff.

It is far from confetti and fireworks when they kiss. It’s all wet and clashing teeth, it's Max trying to hide his puffed face and Lando wiping his tears with a sleeve, and to hell with toads and princes, he’s still the same Max Verstappen when they break apart.

And he realizes what he always loved the most about his mum reading him the tales: she would change them.

_«_ _Quick! Get me a pumpkin and seven mice!_ _»_ _ the fairy ordered._

_«_ _Oh of course,_ _»_ _ said Cinderella, rushing away. She soon returned with a fine pumpkin and with seven mice she had caught in the cellar._

_«_ _Good!_ _»_ _ exclaimed the fairy. She flicked her magic wand and… nothing happened. The mice were happily nibbling away at the pumpkin, inconsiderate of the fairy waving her wand and casting spells. _ _«_ _Ah well,_ _»_ _ she sighed, _ _«_ _it doesn’t always work, I’m sorry, my child… Guess you’ll have to stay and sort those lentils. I can send some pigeons to help you._ _»_

_«Tha__t would be a lot helpful, oh good fairy!_ _»_ _ Cinderella clasped her hands._

_The pigeons arrived, indeed, but before the girl could explain how to sort the peas, they had eaten half of it._

_Upon the time the stepmother with her two daughters returned mirthful from the ball, they found seven fat mice lying among the pumpkin crumbles in their kitchen, a flock of pigeons flying around and Cinderella crying in the corner, tears falling into the empty pot for peas._

They didn’t quite work as goodnight stories back then: he was rolling over the bed in laughter instead of falling asleep. Nowadays, they do. More than once he has cried himself to sleep recalling them. 

He doesn’t find it so funny once he understands painfully well why she was doing it.

Little Max, cuddled up against her, was more intrigued by the lace sleeve of her nightgown than her explanation, but it has settled in his brain and emerged now that he's on the same page, deluded by life and alone with pain he has to hide, smiles he ought to fake and happy ends he doesn’t believe in anymore.

_“Fairly-tales aren’t good for kids, Maxy, they aren’t real. In real life young, pretty people aren’t always the good and smart ones, help doesn’t come out of the blue when you need it the most, and the evil sometimes wins. But sometimes, real life writes the best tales. Everything is not perfect, the prince and the princess maybe don’t live in their beautiful castle on the hill happily till death do them part, they argue and fight and sometimes they break-up, because the prince likes the neighbourhood king’s daughter, or the princess gets tired of cleaning and washing the dishes while he’s doing nothing all days long… But there are some chapters that are truly beautiful. Then there are the ugly chapters. And if you want, you just go and rip them out, burn them and turn the page. Or you keep them to remind you of what not to do.”_

He doesn’t want to be reminded and he has tried to burn them; the bitches won’t catch fire.

But turn the page he can, and perhaps he should.

Maybe they won't be perfect, but there will be a _them_. Which is still less unnerving than swaying on the edge. He wants to dive in; if he drowns, he'll be better off, he only just has to try and keep Lando afloat. Not an easy one, but when has anything ever been easy for him?

Everyone has their own free will, after all. Satisfied with this alibistic conclusion, he lets his hands crawl in the warmth of sinewy back under the soft fabric of the hoodie, so purposeless in Singaporean climate, but that's Lando, wearing trousers and hoodies when everybody else is in shorts and t-shirts, and there are thousands of worse things that could be wrong with him, so Max certainly doesn't care. Lando expresses his will more than clearly right now, kissing Max's neck with hungry urge of who has been waiting too long for it, and Max presses him closer, subtle and warm and so full of life, and a stinging desire shoots up his spine and down his belly, clenching his guts, burning in the chest. He stifles a moan.

_Whoa, easy on him, Max_, he mentally slaps himself.

He doesn’t really know, they never talked about it or anything, but the drivers’ sexual life is tricky on its own. They grow up a bit too fast (the more talented they are, the faster), in an environment that isn’t by any standards natural to children or teens, and their schedule leaves little time to establish romantic relationships with all there is to them: dating, getting to know each other… Ten seconds fuck-and-go isn’t a format for everyone (surely not for one like Lando, he reckons), and trying to keep the long distance loves alive often is more annoying than anything else, so hardly worth it. (Not to mention affairs with colleagues, that's a whole specific pack of suffering and issues.) They all live in their own universe, light-years from common daily life with its joys and problems. They get in touch sometimes, yes, but there is always a glass wall between them and the outer world that they don't really understand and that can't understand them. It has different rules, it spins around a different axis. And when a driver is an avid gamer, on top of social awkwardness, it wouldn’t be all that surprising if he was virgin at his nineteen. It is fairly freaking Max out. He doesn’t want to set an example. A bad example; disgust the guy right from the start.

_Please, God_, he tries – she taught him to pray, not that it helped her much, apparently, but just in case, _let_ _me love him like normal people do…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right choice or not?
> 
> Title from _Alice in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll.
> 
> (Btw, am I weird or has anyone else noticed Lando wearing unnecessarily warm clothes?)


	3. Today’s special moments are tomorrow’s memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lando is smitten, Max is... well, Max.  
Both are somehow frustrated. And neither of them able to express himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't only exist to worship Lando’s super cool designing hobby; to quote him: _“I like to paint my own helmets. I design my own suit and boots, I like being unique in that way.”_ And he is, in that and many more ways, unique and precious <3
> 
> Alrighty, back to business:  
it tackles one symptom of mental illnesses such as bipolar disorder (in manic episode), namely hypersexuality, which involves: (possibly inappropriate) flirting, constantly thinking/talking about sex, increased use of pornography, compulsive masturbation, uncontrollable urges that may lead to experimental and/or risky sexual behaviour… Exists also as a standalone diagnosis, therefore is not necessarily a part of any other. In this fic, it is. Sorry for long intro, but I find it important to stress that it is a serious problem that can grow to extent where it interferes with one's job, ruins relationships, and feelings of guilt and shame can develop (or worsen) other mental health conditions, such as depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies etc.

_~ Sochi_

“Max Norris, why Max Norris?” he asks, and the second it leaves his mouth, he remembers. They came up with it at the _24 Hours of Spa _on iRacing, as Lando felt like an outsider on the team with three Maxes, and he has already forgotten it, like he usually does with half of all the stuff he says while playing. (Or - who is he kidding?- like he usually does when Max is nearby. Touching him, even. _Oh God._)

But now, as Max pronounced it, petting the back of his head in what is already becoming his signature gesture, Lando realizes he actually likes the sound of it a bit too much.

_Max Norris._

It sticks with him through the rest of the interview and for a moment he gets a silly idea: maybe Max would like the name, too…

He catches Alex’s concerned look, a raised eyebrow and slight frown. He gives a questioning nod; Alex unceremoniously moves Max aside and stands next to him.

“You alright?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, you looked… scared?”

“Oh.” _Well, wouldn’t you get scared, if a random joke made you think of proposing to Max Verstappen? _he thinks, then sees Alex is still watching him with that heart-melting worry and Lando wants to lean into his arms and tell him everything: about Max, about them, about his doubts and his feelings that truly are a bit scary, overwhelmingly intense but so beautiful… Just that the truck full of cameras and fellow F1 drivers probably isn’t the best place for confessions of sort. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Sure?”

_No. Please, Alex, ask me again after the race, when I’m on my own and with somewhat clear head, and… _And nothing_._ Now that Alex is Max’s teammate and they seem to get along so well, Lando doesn’t want to cause any awkwardness.

“Yeah.” He smiles up as brightly as he can. Alex returns the grin and turns to George who is addressing him, arm still draped around the smaller driver’s shoulders.

They get along even too well for Lando’s liking, if he’s honest. That Max is a flirt is a known fact which he can’t deny, fight or change. Max finds it amusing, he baths in craving stares, loves when he can get them all worked up and then nonchalantly dismiss any attempts to get closer… He apparently enjoys being in the centre on guys’ fantasies, and it’s only understandable that he is, Lando thinks, he’s sex on legs, oozing confidence, trading dirty jokes at any given occasion… But seeing him do that with Alex, of all people, is so weird on so many levels.

The first thing Lando remembers are the shiny towers on black and blue screen of his dad’s PlayStation 2 that would always suck him into that beautiful world full of cars. He would spend hours and hours with the game, until mum stepped in front of the tv, arms threateningly folded on her chest, after he ignored seven to ten attempts to call him to eat or go to bed, or until dad playfully fought him for the controller, laughing: _“Would you let me play with my console just for a while?”_

Very soon his dad bought a second controller and they raced together, mum tearing her hair out in despair as she had now two crazed guys with dinner going cold on the plates, but she couldn’t help a tug at her heart, seeing them so completely absorbed by some virtual cars running in circles. She assumed that men really don’t grow up. And she suggested her husband took the boy to see an actual race.

The next thing he knew was a flash of yellow, like a ray of sun, number 46 and beamy smile, and suddenly MotoGP wasn’t the only sport in the world. This was new, exciting and reachable and Lando wanted to be a part of it, wanted Alex to acknowledge his existence, wanted that smile aimed at him… Maybe he had a crush before he even knew the word; all he knows now is that aside from _Gran Turismo 3_, what has made him love the racing on four wheels to the core, to the point of dedicating his whole life to it, is pictured on that poster he still has somewhere among his kid stuff.

Alexander Albon. Idol turned friend turned something Lando has never voiced neither defined, but it kept him warm in tough times, knowing that Alex was there, somewhere, and no matter who he was pining after, sharing looks and locking hands with, no matter who he was sleeping with, he would always answer Lando’s texts the moment he went online and find time to talk if he saw the younger driver bothered or upset. They were closer with George, obviously, given their age if nothing else, but he seemed to carry some sort of responsibility towards Lando, to show him the way, as a driver and as a person, be the example the boy has always seen in him.

Now, watching them together, all the laughs and the teasing, it feels like a betrayal from both. It’s just odd. Max is odd, probably that’s why. Because Alex on his own certainly isn’t. But there would be no point in bringing it up. Max wouldn’t understand, anyways. The one time when Lando permitted himself a comment, he got all irked.

_Looks are just what they are: looks, I can’t keep people from fucking looking at me!_

_More like from fucking you with looking_, Lando didn’t retort, and didn’t add: _You can’t, but you could look less smugly when they do…_

_I would never cheat on you, Lando, you’ve got to trust me on this one._

Now would it even be cheating, if they haven’t slept together yet? Lando eyes the Red Bull drivers and feels a lump in his stomach. Alex would certainly be more of a match for Max. Tall, beautiful as he is, smart, mature, self-assured…

Bringing their relationship out of the virtual and into the real world turned out to be trickier than he imagined. They enjoy their time together, sure, and Lando is melting with every Max’s look, let alone a smile or something more, but it also involves, well… the grown-up stuff. He had some upper hand over Max when he was standing on his unshakeable memeing, gaming grounds, securely wrapped in his Twitch Prime pullover and his headset, feeling the support of the sim seat behind his back. Half-naked with just the plain bedsheets around him, he gets lost.

And while Max has been the object of his wet dreams since awhile, he’s tragically failing to execute them in any way.

But he can’t chicken out forever, can he? _Once you were dumb enough to start dating him, own up to it and let him have fun, or man up and be a boyfriend with all there is to it_.

~

He invites Max over, ready to cope with whatever his post-race mood might be but unwilling to spend time in the shambles that his room frequently turns into. He looked calm in the mixed zone, but one can never be sure with him…

Lando definitely doesn’t expect him to be _that_ relaxed, though, and he can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or a resignation.

“Hundred and twelve points, five races to go, if I win them all with the Mercs and Charles out of points, I’m the champion. Hey, you said it, it’s my birthday tomorrow,” Max cheers, “I’m not going to spend it sulking. Speaking of which… am I getting at least a kiss or something?”

Lando doesn’t quite know how to react to the light slap on his ass.

“I, erm… actually, I didn’t want to bring it up, because it’s lame, but I kinda do have a gift for you.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“You didn’t have to…”

“Well, I wanted to.” Lando opens his suitcase and takes out a few large sheets. “It’s nothing much, really, just a draft…” He tries to hold them behind his back, while solemnly shaking Max’s hand. “I won't see you tomorrow, so I wish you many great races, a few titles, tons of fun in life, and you know what I wish you the most of all.” He wraps one arm around Max’s shoulders and whispers: “Stay well, Maxy.”

“I will.” The Dutchman hugs him, presses their lips together and Lando smiles into the kiss, oblivious to two fingers sheepishly crossed behind his back. “Now, what is it?” Max peeks over his shoulder.

“It’s… just a design I made,” Lando hangs his head, suddenly very intrigued by Max's belt buckle. “I wanted to remake one of my old helmets and give to you, just like, you know, like a… decoration?” he chuckles nervously. “I mean, if you like it!”

“Well, show me?”

“It’s awful,” he whines. “I’m sorry, Max, I wanted it to look better, but…”

“Just give it to me _now_.”

He hands over the papers. The buckle is a plain metallic rectangle. _He could use some creativity in life,_ Lando thinks. _At least a rhomboid, something a little bit out of ordinary. _His own creative thinking at the moment is moving within the frames of opening the boring buckle, dropping to his knees, unbuttoning the jeans, catching the zip in his teeth at first try with no effort because hell, he's cool, and…

“Can I get this for the next season?”

He snaps his head up. Thank God, because the scenario in his head would very likely end with some tooth scratch on Max's dick and ruined mood of what started as a chill afternoon.

“Oh c’mon, I’ll be done with it earlier, I just need to get home! I don’t carry the vinyl cutter and airbrush around the world. Too bad, would be much more fun, but they are a bit too spacious…”

“I mean on _my_ helmet.”

“On… _your_ helmet? The… the real one?”

“Yes. Would you?”

“Me?!” he squeaks. “Like, you want _me_ to paint your helmet?”

Max groans. There are two kinds of stupefied people: the ones who keep quiet and process the information, which he prefers, and the ones who echo his every word, for lack of a better reaction. Lando hardly can keep quiet.

“Why not, if you could do yours? I trust you. If it’s not, uhm… if I’m not asking too much.”

“What? No! I’ll… I’d be _honoured_ to do it, really! Just that… I’m not that good, this is F1, it’s not karting or some…”

“Do I look like I give any fucks? I want it from you, or I don’t want it at all. And I want it very much, so…”

“Max… you seriously like it?”

_No, it's ugly as fuck, but I wanna make you happy. Is that what you want to hear?!_ Max bites at his tongue. _Don't be a dick, don't…_ Why?! Why does he always have to react like this? (Deep down he knows. Because he's super horny and everything that isn't sex massively irritates him. But that he can't admit, obviously, not even to himself.)

“Like it? It is the best thing anyone has _ever_ done for me, Lando.” He lets the boy bounce happily while he studies the details of his design.

It’s as minimalistic as his helmets usually are. Red Bull logos take up most of the space, but there is some left for a stroke of originality. The best part is his MV sign at the back: V formed with two petals of cobalt and white stripes and M tinted fluo yellow, it hints at Lando’s own helmet and whether it sends an “I’m with you” or “you’re mine” message, Max loves it either way. The lion is still present, and cute handwriting by the sides of its head, above the Honda logos, reads _keep on_ _fighting_. A universal message, easily referring to racing. Max knows better.

He has no clue about the amount of paper, equal to probably half a tree, that had been balled up and thrown playfully, furiously, languidly across the hotel rooms and airplane suites, until Lando felt like he had nailed Max’s style without spoiling it by a touch of his own, and drew it decently enough.

Yet, the very idea chokes him up. Helmet is the most personal thing in the whole driver’s life, they – or, well, most of them – put a lot of thought into it and seeing a design that feels _his_ at the first sight is sort of magical.

It says something about its creator, also. Whom Max wants to lock in embrace, tear off his clothes and…

“And… as for the other thing,” Lando brings him out of his thoughts before they would become too steamy, “that would be more of a gift for me, but… maybe you might like it – or at least I hope you will, if not I’m kinda screwed…”

“Whatever you want.”

“You?”

“Huh?”

“I… want _you_.” Lando bites his lip, looking up at him, and _fuck, Max, this is it, go get him, there is plenty of fun things he could to with that tongue rather than just chattering all day long…_

Ironically, that is when something switches in his head.

“Uhm…” He sees a little spark dying in green eyes and shakes his head. “Not that I don’t… don’t want it, it’s just… got a lube?” he finds a reasonable argument.

“Oh shit.” Lando runs a hand down his face. “Right.” He mumbles something about a ‘moron’, snatches the sheets from Max and tucks them into a folder. “So, I’ll try it on that old helmet when I’m home, I’ll send you the pics and you tell me if it looks any good,” he frantically pushes the folder into the suitcase, wrinkling the clothes, and blush creeps up his cheeks, “then if it does… Hey, but listen, what about JMD? I’m not sure if Jens will be too happy with you painting your helmets behind his back…”

“Lando… I’m Max Verstappen.”

That, to Lando, sounds like short for _“I can do whatever the fuck I want, and they will even pat me on the back,”_ and ultimate cockiness sends a light shiver down his nape. He didn’t think he could crave the guy even more, but when Max acts like this, he certainly does. (As bold as it is of him.) He shuts the suitcase closed, the folder still sticking out, sits back on his heels and with a quiet whine tugs his t-shirt down to cover the growing bulge in his sweatpants.

Max can’t watch it any longer; he squats down, takes him by the hands fumbling with suitcase zip and plants a kiss on pursed lips. This is going in completely wrong direction. Lando, logically, can’t even remotely guess he might have any reason to keep his distance, other than the obvious one.

_But I **do** want you - the things I would do to you, you have no idea…_

Maybe his decisions aren’t the best ones, if he can’t explain and justify them?

“I would really love to fuck with you, Lando, but I don’t think I have anyth…” He trails off, one of the most idiotic ideas ever invading his headspace. It’s hard to pretend you don’t have a solution, once you have it. Or more accurately, he is too sex-starved to pretend so. “Wait a bit?” He fishes out his phone and Lando freezes as he hears him say: “Danny? Hey… all good, just a question: do you have that coconut thing for your hair… yeah. … Yeah, well, ran out of it. Can I come over now? … Yeah, I’m here. Lando got too lonely, as you can imagine,” he laughs, Lando rolls his eyes and watches him cringe. “Nah, you’re never.” The laughter is a bit forced this time. “Floor? … On my way.”

He hangs up and gives the phone an odd look before blinking it away.

“Daniel and his curls, at least they are useful for once,” he snorts. Lando still has only very vague concept of what just happened, and that's fine with him. “So, that’s it but, uhm, for the condoms…”

“And what for?" he shrugs, it looks careless but Max _knows_ it's more than blind trust, it's a query on his honesty without cornering him with any direct question. Lando never asked what he'd been doing before they got together, but Max can tell he has some quiet concerns. With his demeanour, they are not that surprising. (Neither groundless, and he's very glad he did get tested and can do this with clear conscience.)

"Nothing, just… generally, so it won’t get all messy…”

“Messy is hot,” Lando chirps, unexpectedly, and seems equally surprised and embarrassed. It is Max’s turn to adjust the tight clothing. Maybe it _will_ go well, after all.

“Well then, if you don’t mind, I for sure don’t.”

<strike></strike>

The two teams have been placed in the same hotel, some Renault-powered bonding or whatever, something about a video, Max wasn’t really paying attention when Lando was gibbering about that and many other unrelated things (he was too captivated by the way Lando scrunches up his face when he speaks and too busy keeping his hands to himself), but fundamentally, it means Daniel hasn’t seen the shadow of his teammate all days long, and neither has Lando. Hence Max’s explanation, and his wince when the Aussie pouted: _“I am lonely, too…”_ Normally, Max would probably give some playful answer, but with Lando there next to him, all agitated by what they were supposed to do, it just didn’t sit right with him. He has no time to further ponder about it, though, as the lift stops with a ping and he strides down the hall to the one opened door.

Daniel tousles his hair, hand lingering there for a few unnecessary moments. (Max has almost forgotten how he used to love the touch.)

“Perfect as always, I don’t think you exactly need it.”

“I exactly do.” He sorely regrets taking this shortcut instead of telling Lando to save it for Japan and buying an actual lube in the meantime. Shortcuts can be treacherous. Something flashes through Dan’s features, perhaps a distant memory, and splits his face in a shit-eating grin.

“Need some instructions for use?”

Now Max would have never thought he'd say that, but he _hopes_ that Daniel assumes he’s only up for some random hook-up. He doesn’t want to question his ex-boyfriend’s impeccable integrity.

“Guess I can manage on my own, thanks.” Hoping it didn’t sound too harsh, he grabs the jar of organic coconut oil and heads back to his... Lando. Not quite sure what they are, yet, but definitely exclusive enough for him not to take his playful flirts any further.

(There are times when he, disgusted, thinks he might as well ditch it, but then he gets high on pheromones again and all riled up, he can’t think straight. It's like some sort of trance, and he's lowkey proud of himself for avoiding casual sex. It's something he doesn't want to associate with his life anymore, it was fucking him up real bad when he came back to senses. He was feeling filthy, a worthless slut; it took quite some time and struggle, fights, understanding and support, until he learned to resist, and he _won't _relapse - if nothing else, he owes it to Danny. He has found other means of blowing off a bit of steam. He finishes those perky conversations and exchanges of looks in his head, builds them up to a godless orgy, and he's not any greatly satisfied, but that he wasn't back then, neither, and this isn't so shitty in hindsight. It doesn't make him any less of a bastard, but at least he's not whoring around.)

However, he can’t help asking himself where Daniel is going with all this. Their _“Do you miss me?”_ moment in Singapore caught him by surprise, and although he tried to play it down, Dan was clearly insinuating that what he misses the most about them is far from getting the best out of each other in the qualifying.

And Max went along, because it was fun. The need to inform Daniel and the whole world about his sweaty ballsack came out of nowhere, but… it felt just like it once used to. No animosities, no barriers, shameless and cheeky… As he left his ‘one hundred _sixty-nine_' remark sink in and walked away, he just prayed Lando wouldn’t get to see that interview. If he did, he said nothing, which is worse than whatever he might say. (Little does Max know Lando has seen it number of times, and that’s mostly where his suggestion to properly consummate their relationship came from.)

He was immensely glad when they got back to friendly without awkward, but this starts to gnaw at him. Daniel has underlined number of times that he’s not mad at him, that he just needed some distance. Max understood that. He doesn’t understand what it is that Dan wants now.

For all Max knows, he’s single and happy, he has never asked about it, neither mentioned the thing they have going on with Lando, because it still feels like a too risky minefield to step on. Talking about relationships, about them, reminiscing, falling back in… It wouldn’t do any good.

Was it only about Max, he would go through that whirlwind again and again; he doesn’t mind getting battered, shattered, dusted to the ground, he fucking _loves_ it.

But it takes two to dance his macabre tango.

Now, after all the shit they’ve been through, after they finally managed to find a new balance, he can’t just go and break it apart again.

And he can’t spit in Lando’s face like that. His moral compass may have gone haywire, but he still has some general sense of direction.

Yet, if only he could, he would go and have Daniel fuck the life out of him, _because_ _he_ _knows how_, and Max misses it so badly: their understanding without words, compliance without questions, synced rhythm and utmost confidence… Building it all anew feels so discouraging.

He leans on the cold elevator mirror, fighting the urge to smash his head against it,

and thinks of teeth with cute gap biting at soft lip,

dark curls sticking to sweaty forehead,

high-pitched giggles,

moans through gritted teeth, fingers dug in Max’s hips,

_Don’t push me away._

_I’m lonely, too…_

_I hope you’ll like it, if not I’m screwed…_

_Do you miss me?_

and he wants to cry. His brain is exploding with all kinds of animalistic fantasies, but he feels like a perv for casting Lando in them, damn, he has never even seen him naked before! The closest he got was topless, with waistband a bit lower than normally, pressing kisses down the fair soft skin, where one would usually expect the promising treasure trail, and he remembers the panic in Lando’s eyes, when he tried to pull his briefs all the way down. It has only added to Max’s crippling urge to protect him and that’s why he’s in deep shit right now. He wants to give the boy what he so obviously needs, and get what he needs himself - be it proper sex, finally, after eight fucking months, or some redemption he hopes to find in Lando…

But he’s so afraid of messing it up that it’s almost making him nauseous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the mess that was this chapter and promise that its second half will probably be better. Although definitely weirder. Much less vulgar. Please, don't give up on me just yet^^
> 
> In case anyone hasn't seen the interviews in question yet, do it _now_, they are absolutely golden:  
Singapore / "Do you miss me?": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xoczihNbwY  
Sochi / "sweaty ballsack": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBwbPj1Eoew  
Sochi / "Max Norris": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlL8Kq6IHmw (guys at 9:50)


End file.
